


A less quiet life

by kate_the_reader



Series: Bob [11]
Category: RocknRolla (2008)
Genre: M/M, New Relationship, Vulnerability, getting to know someone
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-05
Updated: 2018-11-05
Packaged: 2019-08-19 10:37:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 12,917
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16532942
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kate_the_reader/pseuds/kate_the_reader
Summary: "He couldn’t explain, if someone asked, why he’s so sure he wants to get to know this prickly, soft, sad man, but he really does."How did Dave feel,that first tumultuous week with Bob? Was he as calm as Bob thought he was?





	1. Saturday

**Author's Note:**

> I fell in love with Dave through Bob's heart, but I wanted to understand him better. This is a straight POV shift of [Building](https://archiveofourown.org/works/9505601/chapters/21504497).
> 
> Thanks to Deinvati, who is such a supporter of these two.

He sinks down on the bottom step as the door closes.

He’d really liked the lad, and it’s been a long time since he’s met anyone and brought them home. A bit of a risk, but he thought they were getting on well. He’d seen a softness in him, under the laughter and the flirting. A softness and a bit of sadness. 

So it was such a surprise, when he came over all hard as soon as they got in the door. Didn’t want to talk anymore, didn’t ask what Dave wanted, didn’t say what he liked, just got undressed and got on his knees. 

Dave stands up and goes through to the kitchen, switches on the kettle for the cup of tea he wishes they’d had. He puts the number Bob flung at him into his phone. Not that he’s likely to use it. 

He doesn’t want to think of him on his knees, his lovely mouth stretched around his cock. Not that he didn’t get off. But he’d thought there would be more, maybe. Not just sex. 

He makes a mug of tea and sits on the sofa to drink it. It’s quiet. It’s always quiet, and he’s tired of quiet. That’s why he went out. To get away from quiet, and neatness; and he’d thought, maybe, that Bob, with his pretty mouth and his sad eyes, his silly laugh and sort of shy swagger … that it would be different. And then he’d seemed so _angry_ and Dave doesn’t know what he did wrong.

He puts the mug in the sink and switches off the lights and goes up to bed. He doesn’t sit on the bed, just pulls off his clothes and gets straight in on the other side and tries to go to sleep.


	2. Sunday

He’s got a bit of a headache, shouldn’t have had so much to drink. He wouldn’t have, if he hadn’t met Bob. He pushes the thought of Bob away and gets up and drags the sheets off the bed, goes to get in the shower. The hot water pounding on the back of his neck eases some of the tension there, and makes his head feel a bit better too. 

There’s plenty to do, Sunday stuff, laundry, hoovering. He tries not to think about Bob, and what went wrong. How did the lad get the idea that all he wanted was a blow job?

But there’s no one he can talk to about it. He feels a bit like a kid again, confused, with no one to ask. 

When he’s putting on his jacket to go out to speak to next week’s clients he remembers Bob said he lives over in the east. Before he can persuade himself not to, he rings him. 

His voice is rough, truculent — Dave’s woken him up. This was a bad idea. But Bob doesn’t tell him to fuck off, so he pushes on: “I thought.” He closes his eyes, swallows down his reluctance, forces himself to say it: “I don’t think that went how we wanted. Not how I wanted. Not how you wanted.” Bob doesn’t really respond, just a huff. “Let’s try again. Start again.” Why can’t he just let it go? Bob was humouring him in the bar, paid him back for the drinks, why would he want to try again? But when he says: “I’m busy,” it’s such an obvious fib Dave can’t help himself, he almost laughs, and that gives him the courage to carry on, even when Bob tells him to “fuck off” over going to the job site. The way he says it, though, it’s like a flash of the flirty lad from last night, and then he agrees to Dave’s suggestion. 

Maybe they _can_ start again. 

Still, he’s nervous as he pulls up outside Bob’s place, nervous when Bob comes out. He looks tired — just showered, but tired. Bob doesn’t really look at him in the van. He asks about Dave’s business. Safe ground, for both of them. He won’t come in, and Dave kicks himself for even suggesting it, why would Bob want to pretend to be his assistant? It’ll be easier to talk over a pint. They talked last night, over a couple of pints.

When Bob says he’s hungry, Dave realises he is too.

Once they’ve ordered, it takes him a while to actually say it: “What the hell happened?” He just needs to know what changed, what he did, or said, to make Bob change, go cold like he did. Bob doesn’t even look at him — “You got off, didn’t you?” As if that was all he wanted. 

The pub is quiet, he doesn’t want to make a scene, but he has to know: “Did you actually enjoy that?” He feels awful saying it. “Can’t say I did.” And even worse, now Bob is on the verge of tears. “I fucked up,” he says, “what more do you want from me?”

And that’s just it, Dave does want more, he really does; how can he make Bob understand? He reaches across the table for Bob’s hand, right here in this ordinary pub. “Did you really think that’s what I wanted? To get off and watch you walk out?”

His heart nearly breaks at what Bob says next. “Isn’t it usually?” He’s not that experienced, himself, but is that how it’s always been for Bob? 

Bob pulls his hand away as the waiter brings their food, and they eat in silence. 

He’s come this far, he can’t let it drop, so afterwards he tells him: “It’s not what I want.”

Bob laughs as if he can’t believe that. “You don’t even know me!” he says.

“But I’d like to.” He couldn’t explain, if someone asked, why he’s so sure he wants to get to know this prickly, soft, sad man, but he really does.

Later, after he’s dropped Bob home, and deflected his offer to come in, he gets a text from him: “I’m sorry I fucked it up.” 

He can’t see to type anything more than “ok” through the tears that fill his eyes. _Okay_. What an inadequate way to try to start something. He’s just going to have to wait to see what Bob does next, he’s pushed him enough, maybe too much. He really hopes not.


	3. Monday

Driving over to the clients’ house, he wonders what Bob is doing. He was vague about his job — a driver could mean anything: truck, van, cab. 

There’s not much time to think about other things during the day as they rip out old kitchen units and knock down a wall — the heavy, physical early part of the job. The lads have got a radio on and the loud music washes over the banging and dust, the cheerful chat and laughter about the weekend. Dave doesn’t join in, of course he doesn’t, he’s the boss, an old man in their eyes. He can hardly tell them: “I met someone. I really like him, but I think I messed it up and I don’t know if he’ll get in touch again.”

He leaves the others to clean up because he’s got to go and quote for the next job. In the quiet of the van, he lets himself think about Bob, and wonder.

His phone buzzes with a text while he’s been shown around the house. It’s Bob! Asking if he can come over. He hasn’t time to respond properly, and he doesn’t want to scare him off, so he just suggests a time.

He realises he didn’t suggest a meal, but he told Bob to come over at dinner time, so he cooks extra anyway. Seven o’clock comes, and no Bob. It’s too soon to worry. At half-past, the doorbell rings.

Bob’s on the doorstep looking nervous. “This okay?” he asks. If only he knew. And then he says in a rush: “What did you mean? Okay? Last night.”

It was unfair, but how can he say: “I think you broke my heart a bit”?

“Come inside,” he says, instead, and offers Bob a beer, fiddles with the cooker; but Bob keeps pushing: “Dave? What did you mean?”

He still doesn’t really know what went wrong, what he did wrong, or if Bob will let him try to fix it. 

“You apologised. I accepted. Even though I’d rather you told me why, a bit better than last night. If you can.”

Bob frowns, looking at the beer in his hand, at the floor. He says softly: “I panicked, okay? I didn’t know what you wanted. Fuck, I didn’t know what I wanted.” His voice rises at the last part and he looks up, sort of defiant.

Dave doesn’t know what to say to that, how to explain what he wants, but maybe he can show Bob. “Come over here, Bob,” he says. Bob comes to stand in front of him and Dave does what he tried to do on Saturday, he runs his hand down his cheek, round to the back of his head, where his hair is short and bristly. And Bob responds, leans into the touch, and it feels like maybe they are back to before, when there was a connection. “Now you get it.” He leans down and kisses Bob lightly. “That so hard?” he says. Bob gasps, and pushes forwards, kissing harder, twitching his hips against Dave’s. But if they do this now, it could all go off the rails again; they’re not ready, Bob has to understand that he’s interested in more than sex. “Slow down, Bob,” he says and steps away, deflecting with a joke about the dinner burning.

Bob looks hurt, lost. 

“I’m tired.” That’s true, but it’s not the truth. They’re not ready. Bob doesn’t want to hear that. “ _I’m_ not ready.” It’s as close as he can come to saying he’s also panicking, that he’s afraid if they rush they’ll lose this. 

This possibility.

This possibility to be with someone again. He’s not sure why he’s so ready to try that with Bob, who seems unsure how to just be. Who seems like a skittish animal, who might run if you make a sudden move. But he asked to come over, even after Saturday, even after Sunday, so maybe he wants that too.

He gets on with dinner, making sure Bob understands that he wants him to stay, now, like this. He tries to still the nervous energy running through him. Takes his hand, leads him over to the sofa. Bob relaxes a bit then, leans his head against Dave’s arm. 

You forget what it’s like, to touch; you don’t know how much you missed it till it’s there again.

They stick to safe topics while they eat. Dave’s confession that he learned to cook from Delia on the telly amuses Bob. And then he gives a glimpse of his childhood, so unlike Dave’s own secure one. The thought of a little kid burning the baked beans he has to heat up himself because his mum is off somewhere makes Dave more certain that he’s not wrong about Bob. And more certain they shouldn’t rush.

But it’s hard to push him off, when he almost pleads: “I can do a lot better, you know. Just let me …” 

As he washes up, later, alone. he thinks of Bob here, getting the forks out of the drawer, on the sofa with his head tipped trustingly back, savouring the quiet, leaning into Dave’s touches, kissing him almost demandingly.

They can both do a lot better. They will. Next time.


	4. Tuesday

They didn’t make any plans. Should they have? Would Bob like to go out, have a drink, a meal, go to a film? Somehow, Dave doesn’t think so. He should have asked, though. He’ll ring him when he gets home, or send a text. Let him decide. 

The sound of a car door slamming as he walks to the front gate makes him look over. Bob is standing next to his car, Dave didn’t even see it there when he turned into the street. 

“Bob? What are you …? Are you okay? Why didn’t you call?” _Slow down, Dave_ , he thinks, _don’t scare him off._

Bob’s face sort of closes. “I’m sorry. You’re probably busy. I’ll just go,” he says.

“Don’t be daft, Bob,” says Dave, “Hello,” he says. He touches Bob’s arm. “Come inside.”

Inside, Bob says in a rush, almost scowling: “I just had to see you, okay?” As if he thinks he’s not welcome. Dave’s not doing a very good job of making him feel welcome.

“It’s okay, Bob. I’m glad you came. It’s fine.” Dave reaches out, a hand on Bob’s shoulder. It’s easier to show than to tell. A tremor runs through Bob; he’s looking at the floor, and then he seems to decide something and steps closer.

“I want to try again,” he says. “Can we?”

Dave’s chest feels wobbly, over-full, and he can’t say more than: “Yes.” He pulls Bob towards himself, and Bob comes, and rests his face against Dave’s shoulder. He can feel Bob still trembling as he holds him, his hand on the back of Bob’s head; he rubs his thumb up his neck, trying to calm him, and his breath evens out and they stand in the quiet hall. Bob puts his hands on Dave’s waist, slips them round, but he doesn’t press forward. Finally, when Bob is still, Dave wants to see him, wants to kiss him. Bob tips his head back and accepts, and gives back, and the possibility is almost too much.

He breaks the moment, suddenly aware of how much he needs a shower, he stinks. It’s a bit of an excuse as well. Time to think, to calm down. “Watch TV while you wait?” he suggests, climbing the stairs, leaving Bob standing in the hall. 

He tries not to take too long, doesn’t want Bob to feel even less welcome. He steps out of the bathroom naked and Bob is standing right there at the top of the stairs. He looks horrified. “Sorry!” he says, and starts backing down the stairs. “I’ll go.”

Dave feels so foolish, it’s a silly situation. “Don’t be stupid,” he says. _What a stupid thing to say!_ “Bob? Come here?” he says, but Bob just stands there, looking at his feet. He makes a little sound, almost a sob. Dave has to reach out, he touches his bowed head. “Oh, Bob,” he says, and he rubs gently at the exposed back of Bob’s neck, aware he’s got his cock practically in Bob’s face. _What a pickle!_ “I’ll get dressed,” he says, and Bob turns and flees down the stairs. He lets him go of course, and listens for the sound of the front door as he pulls on tracksuit bottoms and a t-shirt. But the house is quiet.

Bob’s standing in the kitchen when he goes through. “Oh god,” he says.

He can’t help it, he laughs. “Was it that bad?”

“What? No! Fuck no!” Bob looks relieved he’s making light of it.

“Well then,” says Dave. “Beer?”

He hands Bob a beer and pushes straight on, as if nothing happened. Nothing did, really. He gets out celery and carrots to start making dinner. “You going to help?” he says, trying to let Bob understand that they’re okay.

“Okay,” says Bob, so he hands him an onion to chop. They have their backs to each other as he chops the carrots. “I’m glad you came over,” he says. “I was just surprised.”

“Sorry,” says Bob. “I didn't know I was coming. I was just driving, and then I was here …” 

He brings the board with the onions over. Dave scrapes them into the pan and turns to Bob. “Stop apologising,” he says.

Bob rubs at his eyes. Hard to tell if it’s just the onions. “Can you open this?” Dave hands him a tin of tomatoes.

“What are you making?” Bob asks as he does. 

“We’re making a tomato sauce.” He hopes Bob understands his meaning. He adds the carrots and celery to the pan and gives it a stir. Bob’s got his beer in his hand, he drinks, doesn’t say anything, but it feels comfortable, sort of.

“You can add the tomatoes.” Bob pours them in. He sets the tin down and wipes at his eyes with the back of his hand, sniffing. 

“Hey,” says Dave, “Hey Bob, shh.” He can see the struggle in Bob’s eyes.

“I’ve never done this. Anything like this.” 

Bob could mean the cooking, but he doesn’t think he does, or not only that. “Yeah, I thought so. It’s okay.” He doesn’t think Bob wants to admit how emotional he obviously is, so he says: “Break them up with the spoon.”

“What?”

“The tomatoes. Break them up with the spoon.” 

Bob pokes at them tentatively. It’s obvious he never done this, either.

“Try a bit harder, Bob,” says Dave, partly to lighten the mood. It seems to work, Bob laughs. “I _am_ trying.”

Dave takes the spoon from him and does it. “Yes,” he says, “I know you are.” Bob is trying so hard when it’s clear he’s out of his depth.

When he’s finished with the tomatoes, putting the water on for pasta, giving Bob a bit of room, he goes to stand next to him where he’s leaning against the counter with his beer. “I know it’s hard, Bob. It’s not easy for me either.”

Bob doesn’t say anything, but that’s okay. They stand there, just touching, drinking their beers and listening to the rain outside. When he goes back to the cooker, Bob says: “How do you know how to do it?”

“You have to pay attention, I suppose. You get to know what works.” He could be talking about cooking. He hopes Bob knows he’s not really. “Same for this, I think,” he says, standing close again.

“I'm not sure I'm any good at it,” says Bob, “that I'll be any good.”

Dave isn’t sure either. He wants them to be good at this, both of them, together. “We’ll figure it out,” he says.

Bob’s full of nervous energy all through dinner, jiggling his knee till Dave can hardly stand it. He doesn’t say anything, just puts his hand out to still it. And because he wants to touch Bob. 

Bob pushes his plate away impatiently as soon as he’s finished eating. “Don’t tell me to wait again,” he says, still looking at it. “I need …” He looks up at Dave, his forehead furrowed with the seriousness of what he’s saying. “I’ve got to show you—”

Dave interrupts him: “You don’t have to show me anything. I want to, too. You don’t have to prove anything.” _God, he does want to, but not if it’s like before._

“Okay,” says Bob, almost breathless. “But come on!” He pushes his chair back. “Come on. Please?” He’s almost pleading.

He comes round to where Dave has pushed his chair away from the table, and crowds up to him, his hands on Dave’s shoulders, looking down at him, a bit desperate. Dave can’t deny him. He doesn’t want to.

“Let’s go upstairs,” he says. Bob steps back just enough to let him stand up, like he’s waiting to be touched, and held, so Dave does. Bob closes his eyes and leans into Dave’s hand, trusting. But upstairs, his bravado seems to melt and he stands at the bedroom door as if he’s afraid to go in, back to where it all went so wrong only days ago. Dave turns, holds out his hand, standing at the side of the bed. “Come on,” he says, and Bob walks over. Dave reaches for him and he can feel the pulse in his throat, fast, under his fingers. Bob looks up at him and he kisses him. Bob sort of gasps, and pushes forward, taking over the kiss, grabbing onto Dave, a hand on his arse, his hips twitching, and Dave pulls him closer and they stand there like teenagers snogging until Bob pulls back. But he doesn’t step away, just drops his head to Dave’s chest, as if he’s afraid of spinning out of control. Dave waits, and Bob finally takes a shaky breath and seems calmer, so Dave nudges him over to the bed. He sits down and looks up and reaches for Dave’s waistband. He couldn’t bear it if Bob thinks this is all he wants, after everything, so he stops his hand. 

Bob looks baffled, almost angry. “Don’t you want—?” He gestures at Dave’s erection, tenting his pants. 

Of course he wants it, but not if Bob thinks he has to … service him. “If that’s what you want. But not like last time.” He’s not doing a very good job of explaining. And maybe Bob does want to, like this. “Just let me,” he says, pushing Dave’s pants down and running his hands up under his shirt. Bob’s hands feel so good. He looks up, from under his lashes, and it’s too much like before, even though he’s not on his knees. “Stop.”

“What? Why? I thought—”

“Aren’t you going to take your clothes off? Can I get on the bed?” 

They haven’t spoken about their sexual histories, what they do, what they like, what they don’t. They should, Dave supposes, but he doesn’t know where to start. In bed though, both naked. Equal. Not like before. It can’t be like that again.

Bob took his clothes off the other night, of course, but Dave didn’t really look, didn’t get a chance to notice the things about his body that make him unique. Dave didn’t even get undressed, then. And when Bob saw him naked earlier, he’d been too shy to look.

He sits down and reaches for Bob’s shirt buttons, undoes them, pushes his shirt off his shoulders. Bob’s skin is pale under several tattoos. The hair on his chest is sparse. He looks as if he works out a bit. Dave looks up into his face again. He’s got his bottom lip caught between his teeth. He’s lovely.

“See,” Dave says, “I want to look too.”

“Sorry,” says Bob, and when Dave shakes his head, gives him a cheeky grin: “Sorry.” There he is, the flirty lad from the bar. He liked that lad. He more than likes this Bob. He wants so badly for this to work.

He pushes him down on his back, undoes his belt, the button of his jeans. Stands up to tug them down, and pushes his tracksuit bottoms down, pulls his shirt off. Bob’s just looking up at him. Dave gives him a little push and goes to tug the duvet down. Bob stands up and takes off the rest of his clothes quickly. Dave gets on the bed, leaning against the pillows, and Bob crawls towards him, still biting his lip, frowning a bit. He’ll let Bob set the pace. He hopes he goes slow enough for them both to enjoy it, but he’s not going to tell him to. He’s got to stop telling Bob what to do. Bob runs his hands up the insides of Dave’s thighs, pressing them wider, giving himself space, and then he ducks his head and puts his mouth on Dave. _God, that’s good._ He tips his head back on the pillows, he doesn’t want to watch; but he puts his hand on Bob’s head. Not to force him, just to touch. The feel of Bob’s skull under his hand is already so familiar. Bob’s mouth though! His lips, his tongue, he knows just what he’s doing and soon, soon, Dave’s going to come. He pushes at Bob’s shoulder to warn him, but Bob _shakes his head_ , he doesn’t pull off and Dave comes in his mouth, and Bob swallows and swallows and Dave can feel his throat working. Just as it’s about to be too much, he pulls off, and lays his head on Dave’s thigh, breathing hard.

“Come up here?” says Dave, and Bob lifts up his head and smiles and he reaches out and touches his cheek and leans forward and kisses him, despite the taste of his own come in Bob’s mouth.

Bob straddles him and leans on his shoulders and looks down at him, smiling, confident. Dave runs his hands down Bob’s strong back, feeling the muscles bunching, down his arse, over and over, he feels so good under his hands. And then Bob is demanding, twitching his hips forward, he’s still hard, he didn’t come yet, Dave is forgetting himself.

“What do you want, Bob?” he asks.

“Your hand?” he says, as if he’s never been asked what he wants and isn’t sure he’s allowed to have a preference. Maybe he never has. There’s so much they don’t know about each other. 

Dave flips Bob, so he’s looking up, and his eyes go wide as Dave reaches over to the bedside table to get the lube. He slicks his hand and reaches for Bob’s hard cock. It feels wonderful in his hand. Bob is wonderful under him, pleasure chasing uncertainty on his face. They’re both panting harshly, Bob is arching up under him, and then he comes, and the sound he makes is like a sob and he turns his face away. He’s so beautiful and so hard to understand. He pushes at Dave’s thigh, pushing him off. He’s hiding now, his arm flung over his eyes, his breath still loud. “Jesus,” he says, and Dave reaches out, to calm him, to reassure him, but Bob flinches, he almost shudders, and rolls away, curling up. Dave wants to hold him, but apparently he won’t be allowed to. 

They’re pretty disgusting, covered in Bob’s come, so he gets up to go and clean up.

When he comes back into the room, with a flannel for Bob, he’s lying on his back, staring up at the ceiling. Dave sits on the edge of the bed next to him and hands him the flannel. Bob takes it without really looking at him and cleans himself up.

He sits up. “I’ll go now,” he says.

“What?” Dave hadn’t really thought about it, but he’d assumed Bob would stay. “Why? Stay. Won’t you stay?”

Bob doesn’t look at him. “Stay?” he says, as if that’s something outlandish.

“Yes,” says Dave, taking the flannel and dropping it on the floor, getting into bed, lying down and pulling up the duvet. “Stay.”

He reaches out for Bob, runs his hand down his chest, but Bob flinches.

“What?”

“It’s too much.” He sounds a bit panicked.

“Too much?”

Bob has moved away. “Yes,” he says. “It’s just …” he almost shudders, “too much.” He gets up and walks out of the room. He’s in the bathroom a long time, but finally he comes back into the bedroom. “Okay,” he says, and gets back into the bed. He stays far from Dave.

“I’m sorry,” says Dave. “I didn’t realise.”

Bob is lying on his back, rather stiff. Dave reaches for the lamp, turns it off. “Good night,” he says.

Bob sighs, and turns away, lying curled into himself.

There’s so much he doesn’t know about Bob. So much to learn. He wants to learn it. He hopes Bob lets him.

He listens to the rain and to Bob’s breathing. At last it softens and slows.


	5. Wednesday, Thursday, Friday

When he wakes, early, as he always does, Bob has shifted closer and turned towards him. He looks soft, and young, and vulnerable in sleep. Dave would like to stay here with him, watch him wake up, but he really can’t take the time. If only it wasn’t a workday. He gets up and goes to make tea. 

When he comes back into the room, Bob is just waking up. “I made you a cuppa.”

“I’m sorry.” Bob yawns. He’s soft and rumpled, frowning a bit. “I was awake …”

“And then you weren’t.” Dave knows he’s got a soppy look on his face. He wants to touch Bob, but he doesn’t want to make him uncomfortable, like last night.

“I’m sorry I was such a dickhead,” says Bob, soft, hesitant. 

Dave almost can’t bear that he’s still thinking that, but Bob probably doesn’t want to talk about his fears, right now. “What do you mean?” he says, but lightly, turning away, so Bob doesn’t think he’s being put on the spot. “I’ve got to get going,” he says. He really does need to get on. “I’m going to get in the shower.” Bob doesn’t say anything as he leaves the room. He showers, washing last night away, and shaves quickly. Bob would like a shower too, he’s sure. He gets a towel out of the cupboard for him, and goes back into the bedroom with his towel around his hips. He’s standing at the chest of drawers, getting out pants and socks, when Bob comes up behind him and touches his shoulder softly. He turns around. “Good morning,” he says, daring to reach out, running just the back of his hand lightly down Bob’s face. “How did you sleep?”

Bob’s still pretty much half asleep, and he says he did sleep, even though he thought he wouldn’t. “I’ve never done that,” he says.

“Never?” Dave says lightly, to cover his sadness at that, that Bob’s missed out on just being close to someone. No wonder he seemed so unsettled when Dave asked him to stay. “Do you want to shower?” he says, to get them out of a moment that could overwhelm him. “But you’ll have to be quick.”

It doesn’t surprise him when Bob checks: “You sure? I will be quick.”

Dave goes downstairs, fetches the paper, makes toast. He can hear the shower running. It’s good to have the sounds of another person in the house. He looks up when he hears Bob’s footsteps. He stops in the doorway. “Everything okay?” says Dave.

“Yes,” says Bob, but he doesn’t come any further into the room. “I’ve got to go.”

Dave gets up and goes to him. “If you’re sure.” He reaches out, a hand on Bob’s arm. He doesn’t want to push him, but he wants to touch him, needs to almost.

“Yeah,” says Bob. “I’ve got to go home first.” He doesn’t move to actually leave, though. Dave moves his hand, up Bob’s arm, up his neck, strokes along Bob’s jaw. Bob tilts his face into the touch.

“Thanks for staying.” Bob doesn’t seem to know how to respond. The hair on the back of his head is just long enough that Dave can tug on it gently. Bob tips his face up, and Dave kisses him, lightly. “It’s okay, he says, “wasn’t it?” He hopes it was. He wants more mornings like this, or even better, Bob sitting eating toast, comfortable, at home. He better not get ahead of himself. 

“Yes, it was,” says Bob, and he smiles, and still seems reluctant to leave. Finally, he turns for the door. “Can I call you?” he asks, looking over his shoulder, and smiles when Dave says: “Of course, Bob.” 

The door closes behind Bob, and Dave stays where he is, in the hall. It’s too soon to want this every morning.

His planner is lying on the table and when he checks as he finishes breakfast, hurrying a bit now since talking to Bob has slowed him down, he realises he can’t see Bob tonight, even if Bob wants that. He won’t pressure him, Bob’s not ready, probably.

He’s up a ladder when he feels his mobile buzz a bit later. When he gets a chance to look, Bob has texted: “Glad i stayed”. He texts back: “So am I”. One of the lads grins at him, he can’t help the way he’s smiling.

Shit, he didn’t tell Bob he’s busy tonight. He sends him another text: “Hi, I’m not at home tonight. Sorry.” Bob doesn’t reply, so he phones him a bit later. Asking if he’s alright is probably a mistake, Bob sounds rather put out. Dave’s startled into a bit of a sharp reply: “Geez, Bob. I just wanted to say hi.” _Damn, calm down, give him some space._

“Sorry,” says Bob, “how’re you?”

“I’m fine,” says Dave. “I’m sorry about tonight. It’s not something I can get out of. Wish I could.”

“Yeah, me too.” He doesn’t ask Dave what he’s doing, but Dave doesn’t want to hang up yet. “What are you doing tonight then?” He hasn’t got a clear sense of Bob’s life, what he does with his time.

“Not much. Might watch a match. Fuck, Dave, I’m shit at this.” 

He does seem unused to just chatting on the phone, but it’s such a silly thing to be worried about. Dave laughs. “You’re okay. Who’s playing?” 

Bob doesn’t seem to care, but it gives them something laugh about. He lets Bob tease him about being a tragic Bolton Wanderers fan until he has to go. “You have a good evening, Bob,” he says. It feels so good to have someone to say that to.

“Yeah, thanks,” Bob says, warm and light, “You too.”

It’s hard to concentrate on the meeting. When he gets into the van later to drive home, he can’t help texting Bob. “Who won?”

Bob replies: “Spurs, 1-0 boring match”

“Sorry. Boring meeting”

Bob’s next text says: “What are you doing tomorrow”

Dave hasn’t wanted to push Bob into coming over again so soon. “Nothing. Come over?” he suggests.

“RU sure”

It’s stupid, trying to have a conversation by text. He rings Bob. “I won’t ask you to come over if I’m busy, you know. Of course I’m sure.”

“Okay. Sorry,” he says, inevitably. “Can I stay again?” he asks in a rush, as if he’ll lose his nerve.

That makes Dave happy. “Of course you can if you want,” he says.

“Yes. Thank you,” Bob says, all serious.

“Okay then. I’ll see you round seven again. If that’s alright.”

“Yeah, yeah. Great. Seven,” Bob says, sounding a bit like he’s done enough talking, so Dave lets him off. “I’ve got to go. Drive home. Good night, Bob.” He likes saying that.

“Yeah. Bye,” Bob replies, obviously smiling too.

It’s only Wednesday, but what a week already! And now they’ve made a date. 

When he goes into the bathroom to shower, the towel he gave Bob, hung up neatly, is like a promise for tomorrow.

***

He’s got a busy day, not much time to think about anything other than work, but afterwards, he shops for dinner, something he can get on with while he waits for Bob, bangers and mash, nothing fancy. As he slices onions for the gravy he remembers Bob sniffing and wiping his eyes over the task the other day. Simple homely things seem to overwhelm him most. Dave really hopes this isn’t just a weird week that will end and leave him with nothing. Hopes he isn’t being stupid, thinking ahead, seeing Bob in his life.

The sausages are in the oven, the potatoes are boiling, the onion is cooking gently for the gravy. There’s nothing left to do for dinner. He’s got a bit of paperwork, the quote from Monday to write up. He should have done it yesterday; he’s like a kid neglecting his homework. The last time he really felt like this he _was_ a kid with homework to neglect. He fetches the quote book and brings it to the kitchen table, where he can keep an eye on the cooker. 

By the time he’s finished, it’s gone seven. Still too early to wonder where Bob is, he was a bit late on Monday too.

He pours the sausage dripping into the onions and makes the gravy; mashes the potatoes with lots of butter and puts it all in the oven to keep warm. 

It’s half-past. He texts: “Where are you?” Hoping it’s not too much. No reply. Has he pushed Bob too far? They hardly know each other. But on the other hand, they made a plan, and Bob was eager to come. 

Finally, at eight, a reply: “Stuck at work.” 

Then another: “Sorry.”

He hates trying to talk something out by text, but if Bob’s too busy, he probably wants to talk on the phone even less than usually, so Dave texts: “I was worried. Come later?”

“i’ll try” 

Which is not very promising, but it’s better not to assume the worst. And scare him off.

“Okay. See you”

He dishes up for himself, doesn’t linger over the food, and puts the rest away in the fridge.

He wishes he knew Bob well enough to know if he is really just stuck with the unexpected overtime demands of an unreasonable boss, or if he’s having second thoughts. He pushes that away. If only there was someone he could talk to.

But there is. He calls his sister.

“Hello, Moira.”

“Dave! How’re you? You caught me at a good time. Joe’s dealing with bedtime, all I’ve got is lunches.”

He asks after the kids, smiles at the news of small school triumphs: a goal, a gold star, the class guinea pig brought home for the weekend.

And then Moira says: “Hush, me! What did you phone about, Dave?”

“I met someone.” He hadn’t intended to spill it out like that, with no preparation. 

“Dave! That’s brilliant! When?”

“Saturday.” It sounds absurd, what must she think. He’s like a kid with a crush.

Moira laughs. “You must really like him, if you’re telling me so soon!”

“I do. You’re right, it’s too soon.”

“Too soon for what?”

“For … how he makes me feel. I don’t even know him.”

“Tell me about him. What’s his name? Where’d you meet?”

“His name’s Bob. I met him in a bar. In Soho.”

“A gay bar?”

He laughs. “I am gay, you know!”

“Sorry,” she says, “yes of course, a gay bar. What else? What does he do? Is he nice looking? Does he make you laugh?”

“He’s a driver. Yes, he is. Yes, he does. But, Moira, he doesn’t only make me laugh. He’s sort of sad, somehow. I think he didn’t have an easy time, growing up. I don’t think he has an easy time now. I don’t know …”

“Just be kind to him, Dave, and you’ll find out.”

“I hope so. I hope …”

“What is it?” Moira is good at hearing when there’s something more.

“He was supposed to come over, tonight. But he didn’t. He says he’s stuck at work, but I had to drag that out of him. So I don’t know …”

“You think he’s getting cold feet?”

“Well, yes. But he asked if he could come over. Stay over. And now …”

“Maybe it really is a work emergency. What did you say he does?”

“He said he’s a driver. A bit vague, actually.”

“You hardly know him, and he’s staying over and standing you up? Are you sure you’re being careful?”

She’s right. He hardly knows anything about Bob. They’re moving far too fast. But the thing is, until tonight, it’s felt right. Even when it was awful, on Saturday, it felt like something worth fixing. He can’t explain it, even to himself. He hopes it isn’t just over. 

“I don’t know,” he says. “Maybe not. He’s not going to break in and steal the telly, if that’s what you mean! He just hasn’t had much practice. Maybe he got overwhelmed. I’ve seen him every day since we met, almost.”

“Or maybe his boss is unreasonable, and made him stay late with no warning. You can’t imagine that, because you’re so soft, you’d never do that.”

“Yes, maybe!” he laughs. “Thanks. I’ll wait and see, I suppose. Ring him in the morning.” 

“Too soon to panic,” she says.

“I hope so. Hug the kids for me,” he says, “Tell Joe I said hello.”

“Don’t fret. Let me know what happens.”

“I will. Thanks. Good night.”

It was probably just something beyond Bob’s control. He wishes he knew for sure, though.

***

He tries to wait, in the morning, but he’s sure he rings Bob far too early. His voice is rough with too little sleep: “Yeah?”

“Bob? Are you alright? Why didn’t you at least call?” That’s probably too much, he just can’t stop himself.

“Yeah. It was really late. I didn’t want to wake you. Sorry.” He says it round a yawn. Dave can’t help picturing what he looks like, rumpled, his eyes falling shut. But he also can’t help it if he lets his irritation and worry show.

“You couldn’t even text?”

“Ah jeez Dave! No. I couldn’t. Sorry. I told you. That I’d be shit at this.”

He has no right to put Bob on the spot like this, no claim over his time, but it’s hard not to react to that, to Bob’s repeated certainty that’s he’s bad “at this”.

“Yeah, well, don’t go off the deep end.” And that was definitely the wrong thing to say.

“Sorry.”

“Ah, Bob. Stop saying sorry.”

“Sorry. What else can I say?”

Dave laughs at the way Bob makes a joke of this. Better than him feeling judged.

“Want to try again?”

“What?”

“Come over tonight?”

“Really?”

_Does Bob really think Dave is going to want to stop this over one broken date?_

“Yes. But let me know if you can’t.”

“Okay. Yes. Thank you.”

“Okay. Have a good day.”

“Yeah. You too.”

“Bye, Bob.” He hopes Bob can hear in his voice how lucky he feels, that they can keep trying till they get it right.

“Yeah. Bye.”

He texts Moira: “I phoned. He’s coming over tonight.”

He doesn’t think he needs to worry.

Her reply says: “Brilliant!”


	6. Friday evening

There wasn’t time to brood during the day. 

On his way home, Dave stops to buy a fresh chicken, so he can make something nice for Bob. He wonders if anyone has, for a long time.

It’s in the oven when the doorbell rings. When he opens the door, Bob is looking off down the street, but he steps in and walks into Dave, pressed up against him, his hands at his sides.

“Hello!” says Dave, a bit thrown by Bob’s intensity.

“Thank god,” says Bob, his voice muffled in Dave’s neck, breath warm against his skin. He seems to calm and steps back a bit. “Hello,” he says.

“Hello,” Dave says again, and brings his hands up to hold Bob. _Thank god_. He kisses him. “Come in,” he says, stepping back. Bob is holding a carrier bag. He puts it down, doesn’t say anything. He came prepared to stay. Dave doesn’t say anything either, has to swallow a bit of a lump in his throat.

He gets them both a beer and they stand in the kitchen together, comfortable.

“I don’t need to know about yesterday. But I did worry. Just so you know.” He hopes he doesn’t come off as prying, or controlling. That’s not what he means. But he wants Bob to know that he cares. That he wants Bob to care, too.

“Yeah,” says Bob. “Things got busy. I’m not used to …”

“Anyone caring where you are?” _Is that what he meant, or did he mean, someone checking up on me?_

“Yeah. Unless they need me to do something.”

“How does it feel?”

Bob doesn’t look at him, but he reaches out in a very Bob way, just the edge of his hand, touching Dave’s. “I don’t know. Nice. I think.”

“Good,” says Dave. It’s more than good. It’s awful when no one would notice if you didn’t turn up.

Then Bob says: “What are you cooking?”

He probably wants to move on from talking about expectations. Cooking is a good way to be together without always having to talk. It’s nice to have someone to do this with.

But the horrible bleakness of Bob’s childhood, with no one to show him simple things, like how to peel a carrot with a peeler, almost hurts. The thought of the little boy he was, left alone at home — Dave has to swallow another lump in his throat. He’s glad Bob can’t see his face when he goes over to help him, reaching round and steadying his hands. Bob lets his defensiveness slip and leans into Dave; his shoulders relax. “Thanks,” he says, and finishes the carrots.

Sitting on the sofa while Dave carries on with the potatoes, his head tipped back, his eyes closed, Bob says: “I can bake scones.”

Good thing his eyes are closed, Dave’s sure his face would betray something he’s not sure Bob would want to see. “Yeah?” he says. And Bob tells about his mate’s mum teaching him how. Thank god there were people like her in Bob’s life.

He finishes in the kitchen and goes to sit with him; Bob leans against his arm. “I like scones,” Dave says, “You’ll have to make them for me some time.”

“Okay,” says Bob, peaceful. He’s letting little pieces of himself show. Dave is careful not to demand too much, Bob will tell him when he’s ready. And it’s not as if Dave has told him all that much about his own past. He can’t quite decide how to tell him, but he knows he has to, before they go much further.

He asks Bob to set the table while he makes the gravy. He likes the fact that Bob knows where the cutlery is. 

Bob almost groans when he takes his first bite. “Did Delia teach you how to do this?” he teases. And he lets slip another bit of his past, talking about his Nan making Christmas dinner. And another bit when Dave asks him if he was born in London— how he’s never been anywhere, except the seaside a few times. His confession: “My mum wasn’t much good at being a mum” is one of the saddest things he’s told Dave.

“Well,” Dave says, “it’s tough, I suppose. I was lucky.” He really was: a mum and a dad who loved each other, who had enough money — not a lot, but enough — who loved him, and showed him they did, a sister who understands him, who he can talk to. 

“Why did you become a builder?” 

It’s obvious shifting the conversation to Dave’s past is a relief to Bob. But it gets them close to the thing he knows he has to tell.

“My dad was a builder. Brickie. He got me a job when I left school.”

“But now you own your own company, in London.”

“I moved down here after … my wife left me.” There, he’s said it. It’s not something he tells easily. He’s never told anyone so soon.

“Wife?” Bob’s voice rises with shock. 

“Yes. I got married far too young. I didn't know … I didn’t know … that I didn't have to.”

“So, are you …?”

He doesn’t know. Realising what had seemed wrong with his teenage romance with Brenda was such a relief, he’s never thought about whether he does like women too.

“I’ve not met another woman I want to be with. So I don't know.” Dave reaches for Bob’s hand. “Bob?” He trying to ask if Bob’s alright with what he’s just told him.

“Everyone just thinks they know you. But they don’t know you. At school … they just think you like girls. I never told anyone.” Bob does understand. Of course he does. They really are pretty similar.

“Yeah. I never told anyone, either. But my wife knew, somehow. We were too young anyway. Living just round the corner from our families. We both wanted to have fun. Just not with each other, I suppose.”

“She left you?” 

“She was the brave one. We both knew it wasn't going to work. She left and so I left too. Came to London. My second boss liked me. Helped me start on my own. Gave me jobs he didn't have time for.”

“And then? Blokes?” Dave can’t look straight at Bob as he remembers the fantastic realisation that he could meet other guys like himself, have a bit of fun, at least.

“I found out about bars where I could meet blokes. I never knew of one, up north.”

“So that’s what you do? Pick up guys in bars? That’s what this is?”

“What? No!” Of course Bob thinks that, why wouldn’t he? But how can he explain how different this feels from every other time he’s met someone, and liked them.

“But that is what you did. With me.”

“Yes. But I wanted to see you again.” He’s looking straight at Bob now.

“Even after it was so shit. After I was so … Why, Dave?” He looks down at the table, runs his finger along the edge, fidgety, like he gets when they’re talking about something difficult.

“You weren't shit, you know.”

Bob snorts, derisive.

“Well, yeah. It was pretty bad. You said you were scared. So was I.” He’s finally admitted that he doesn’t feel calm and in control, even if he has been trying to make it seem like he is. How has that been fair to Bob? Letting him think he’s the only one who’s terrified.

“You? Why were you scared?”

“Because I really liked you, Bob. I really like you.”

Bob looks up at Dave. “Me too,” he says with a slight smile. He stops fidgeting and they sit quietly together. Dave wonders what will happen next, what Bob wants next.


	7. Friday night

To give himself a bit more time, he says: “Let’s just clean up here and then … we can go up. If you want.”

Bob takes the plates to the sink and looks around, probably for the Fairy Liquid. “It’s under the sink,” Dave tells him. Bob gets on with washing the dishes while he puts the leftover chicken in a Tupperware.

When Bob finishes, Dave asks him if he wants a cup of tea. He says yes. They’ve come a long way since last Saturday. He comes to stand behind Dave as he waits for the kettle to boil, sips his arms around him, lays his cheek on his shoulder, not demanding anything other than closeness. Dave reaches for his hand. This is Bob’s favourite way of being close: leaning against Dave. It emphasises the difference in their heights in a way that makes Dave’s chest clench with tenderness.

On the sofa, Dave reaches for Bob in _his_ favourite way, a hand at the back of his neck, thumb rubbing. 

“’S nice,” Bob almost sighs. But the other night, he flinched away from Dave. 

“Not too much?” he asks.

It’s such a relief when Bob says: “No, I like it. It was too much, before. I’m okay now.”

Dave thinks he knows why, but he asks anyway. “No one has, before?”

“No, not really.”

“My dad was a bluff Northern bloke, but he did hug us kids. Maybe that’s why I got the habit.” Dave has really missed casual intimacy; it’s why he can’t stop touching Bob.

Bob leans forward and drinks his tea, and stands up. “Now? Can we?” He reaches for Dave and pulls him against his chest and kisses him demandingly. It feels good. It feels right. He puts his hands on Bob’s arse. “Let’s go up,” he says.

In the hall, Bob picks up his carrier bag. “You came prepared,” Dave says. Bob grins and agrees. “That’s good.” He’s already showered, and so has Bob, probably, but Dave offers anyway. 

He’s a bit surprised when Bob asks: “Will you shower with me?”

But, god, he wants to run his hands all over Bob’s body, and the shower is good for that. “If you want,” he says.

Bob grins, properly relaxed and happy. “Yes,” he says. “I do.” There’s heat in his eyes too.

In the bathroom, Bob starts to strip off hastily, but Dave wants to take his time. He wants to look, and touch and he hopes Bob wants that too. Of course he does. They undress each other and run their hands over each other’s bodies. Bob’s hands are smaller than his, softer, no builder’s calluses. Dave loves them on his skin, loves it when Bob rubs through the hair on his chest. Bob’s panting slightly and Dave undoes his belt and slides his hands into his jeans, his hand cupping his cock. Bob lets his head fall back, and Dave drops his mouth to his throat, and it just slips out: “You’re lovely.” Bob’s breath stutters, Dave kisses him on the mouth again and then Bob’s hands are on his hips, his arse, he’s pushing Dave’s clothes off and grinding against him. “God!” he says, “Fuck!”

But Dave really wanted to take their time, to take a long time, to give something it seems Bob may never have had, or very rarely: his full attention, time to explore his body. Time to explore Dave’s. If they keep going like this, it’s all going to be over right here, in the bathroom. He doesn’t want that. Not tonight. 

“We were going to shower,” he says, pushing Bob away slightly.

But Bob just pulls him back. “Mmmm,” he says, “yeah, okay.” It’s up to Dave to disentangle them; he’s almost as reluctant as Bob, but he steps away enough to turn on the taps, and get Bob into the shower as the steam billows out. Bob stands under the hot spray, bending his neck to let the water run down his back. Dave steps up behind him, slips his arms around. His cock is brushing Bob’s arse, he rolls his hips. “Mmm, you feel good,” says Bob. It feels more than good, but Dave still wants to slow down. He grabs the shower gel and washes Bob’s chest, his back, under his arms, his flat stomach. His cock is stiff and it’s impossible not to get a hand on him. Bob twitches his hips forward. And then he says, soft, hesitant: “Want you to fuck me.”

Christ, this is Bob, who was practically sobbing from a hand job, who seemed hesitant to even ask for that. Dave’s got to look at him. He steps back, so the spray isn’t in their eyes, turning Bob towards him.

“If that’s what you want.” _He’s just asked, of course he wants to!_

“Yes.”

“Have you ever?”

“No.”

“I don't, that often.” It’s clear Bob is nervous, and so is he. It’s not something he can just do with someone he doesn’t know well. But even though they’ve known each other less than a week, it does feel they have come a long way. What they have been doing feels intimate, sharing a shower, just _being_ quietly together. 

He’s not sure Bob is really hearing what he’s trying to say. Fucking is different, it’s more intense. Bob’s first time — it’s a momentous responsibility. 

“Really? I thought …”

“That everyone does it? You’d be surprised.”

“If you don't want to …” Bob drops his eyes, his voice small.

“I didn't say that, Bob. I’d love to. Both ways, if you want. But you don’t have to. It can be overwhelming. Are you sure?”

“Yes, I want you to. Please?” _Damn, he’s made Bob feel like he has to beg. He’s not very good at this._

“Alright.”

They get back under the spray to warm up.

“You kept it for me,” Bob says when Dave hands him his towel from the other day.

“Of course,” says Dave, a wave of tenderness crashing over him. He hopes he can make this first time good. Better than good.

Bob stays in the bathroom after they finish cleaning their teeth. Dave gets a towel from the linen cupboard. He wishes he could be less fastidious, but he can’t. Bob hesitates in the doorway as Dave gets the lube and condoms out. There’s another bottle in there, and he gets it out too.

“Get in the bed,” he says. Bob sits down and looks up at Dave, his forehead furrowed. It’s so quiet he can hear Bob’s nervous, panting breaths. He reaches out, runs his hand down Bob’s cheek. “Shh,” he says, and leans down and kisses him. “You tell me to stop if it’s too much, eh?”

Bob nods. “Okay.”

“Lie down. On your tum.”

Bob looks at Dave over his shoulder as he kneels astride his legs running his hands over Bob’s skin. He wants to make him feel so good. He opens the bottle of oil and pours some into his hands, rubs them together, and sweeps across Bob’s tense shoulders, down his back, over his arse, and back up, over and over, until he feels Bob relax. He lets his hands linger on Bob’s lovely bum, fingers trailing lightly up the crack. Bob draws a hissing breath.

“You okay, Bob?” He keeps up his massage, slow.

“Um, yes,” says Bob. He sounds uncertain. After he got overwhelmed the other night, Dave is scared of pushing him too far. But Bob’s a grown man, and Dave has to treat him like one.

“You sure?”

“I think so.” His voice wavers. He needs time, maybe. Dave gets off him and lies down, gets him to roll on his side so he can see his face. His eyes are wide. Dave runs a hand down his cheek, and kisses him. Bob grabs for him a bit desperately. 

Dave has never felt like this for anyone, so tender and protective. “Oh, Bob.”

Bob just breathes for a bit. Then he says, voice firmer: “I do want to. Really. I'm okay. I'll be okay.” 

“But you’re nervous,” says Dave. “I was, my first time. Everyone is, I think. I want it to be good. I hope I can make you feel amazing. But you might hate it. Some guys do.” He doesn’t hate it, but he’s not been with too many guys he wanted to open himself up to like that.

“Okay,” says Bob, serious, “but can you please?” And he turns back over. Dave strokes his hand down his bum, and back up, his fingers just skimming his hole. Bob draws an audible breath. 

Dave gets back up on his knees and leans over to get the lube. Bob giggles when it makes a funny noise as he squeezes some into his hand. It’s nice to break the tension a bit.

He pushes his slippery fingers down the crack of Bob’s arse, circling gently, slipping just the tip of one a tiny bit inside. He’s got his other hand spread on the small of Bob’s back. He hopes it feels comforting, not like being held down. Bob seems to be holding his breath. “Just breathe,” he whispers, and Bob turns his head and smiles at him. He sinks his finger deeper, brushing Bob’s prostate. Bob gasps: “Dave!”

“Bob?”

Bob answers him: “Fuck, fuck, fuck!”

Dave can’t help smiling, as Bob pushes his arse up, chasing the sensation. He leans down and kisses his way down Bob’s arching spine, and crooks his finger. Bob’s panting and rutting against the mattress, as if his body doesn’t know where to go. “More?” And Bob just nods, so Dave sinks two fingers in. And he can hear Bob fighting to relax, his hitching breaths smoothing out, and then he calms and pushes up again. 

Dave can hardly wait to be inside him, but he must. “Get up on your knees,” he suggests, and he risks pressing Bob’s shoulders down, and then he has both his hands on Bob’s arse, spreading him open. He presses his fingers in, and reaches for Bob’s hard cock, and he strokes him and Bob is rocking between his hands, fucking into his hand, and pushing back. Trembling. And then he says: “Dave? Don’t you ...?

“Don’t worry.” He brushes his thumb across the tip of Bob’s cock and he comes, burying his face in the pillow, trying to stifle a shout. Dave can feel Bob’s orgasm crashing through him, shaking him as he pants: “Christ! Fuck! Fuck!”

As Dave pulls out, Bob clenches down on his hand. “Don’t,” he says, his voice catching. “I wanted you to fuck me.” He sounds so sad, Dave almost can’t respond. “Oh Bob,” he murmurs. 

Bob is still hiding his face, but Dave wants to see him, he pushes gently on his shoulder, and Bob turns onto his back, screwing the heels of his hands into his eyes. Tears run down. “Fuck! Why?” He sounds almost angry. With himself, or with Dave?

He reaches for him, soothing. “You’re overwhelmed,” he says. “It’s very intense, I think. It always is.”

“But, you?” says Bob. He sounds less desperate.

“Plenty of time for that,” says Dave. He’s been sort of ignoring his own arousal, focused on Bob’s. 

Bob is focused on Dave now. “Do you want …? I want …”

“Of course,” says Dave. He wants what Bob wants. “Shh.” He wipes the tears from Bob’s face, and kisses him, trying to convey how full of emotion he is too, how this has taken him to a place he hasn’t been before either.

He wants Bob to have time to recover, but he needs to come too, and he’s aching to be inside Bob, if he really wants that too. If he can, so soon.

He straddles him again, looking into his face this time. Bob looks up, dreamy and open. He leans down and kisses his way down his chest, slowly.

“Is this okay? Not too much? We can stop if it is.”

“Yes. No. Don’t stop.” Bob reaches up and puts his hands on Dave, on his shoulders, then sweeping down his back, across his arse. 

He really can’t wait much longer. He kneels and gropes in the covers for the lube, leaning over to grab the condom. He hands it to Bob. “Will you?” he says. Bob nods and sits up, pulling his knees up. Dave tugs his feet round his waist. He can feel Bob’s breath — warm, even, calm now. He looks at Dave very seriously.

“Okay?” Dave asks.

And Bob answers: “Okay.” His voice is very soft, but he doesn’t seem hesitant. “Yes,” he says, as he rolls the condom on. His touch! Dave takes his hand and squirts a blob of lube into his palm, nods at his erection. Bob smiles an almost private smile and takes him in hand, slicking his length. He twists his wrist — “Careful!” says Dave, mock stern, but if Bob isn’t, he will come right now, and they don’t want that. He’s slicked his own hand and he asks: “Alright?” Bob knows what he means, he nods, and Dave moves his hand back to Bob’s arse, presses in with two fingers. Bob’s eyes widen a bit, and he nods again, a frown creases his forehead as Dave slides slowly in, and out and in.

“Now?” Bob asks, his breath speeding up.

“Soon.” Dave withdraws, and goes back with three fingers. He wants Bob to be ready, to feel only good. Bob is lying back now, his hands clutching at the sheet, and he’s panting. “Too much?” Bob shakes his head, but he’s biting his lip. Dave thinks he knows what Bob is experiencing, that feeling of “I can’t” fighting against “I need”. He brushes Bob’s prostate and Bob gasps: “Now, please?” he says. “Now!” Dave can’t wait. He kisses Bob quickly, and then he’s pushing at Bob’s entrance and there’s that resistance and Bob’s face shows a flash of pain, and determination. He closes his eyes. “Just breathe,” says Dave, and Bob nods again and Dave is trying to go slow, slow and Bob is so tight and he feels so good. 

He stops moving, waiting for Bob, and then his face relaxes and he opens his eyes and looks straight into Dave’s eyes and he smiles. “Okay, love?” That can be a casual endearment, but it isn’t, not here, not now. He brings a hand up to Bob’s face, his thumb pushing against his mouth and Bob gasps a huge lungful of air and nods again. “You can …” he says, his voice sticking in his throat, and Dave starts to move, pushing fully in. And pulling back, and he has to check with Bob —“Okay?” — and Bob just groans, and he tightens his grip on Dave’s hips and it’s almost overwhelming and Bob is arching up to meet him and they’re panting almost in unison now and Dave is moving faster and faster and as he comes, Bob reaches up and grabs his shoulders and he’s shaking too and coming, untouched. Dave has never felt like this, such an intense connection to a lover. It’s his first time too. Bob pushes a hand to the back of his head and their foreheads are touching and they’re both panting harshly. He can’t keep holding himself up. He lowers his weight onto Bob, trying to catch his breath.

And then Bob pushes at his shoulder. “Dave?” he says, in a tiny, cracked voice. It’s too much for him now. Daves lifts himself off Bob, and his cock slips out of him. There are tears at the corners of his eyes. “Love?” But Bob rubs the back of his hand across his face and turns his head away. He needs space. Dave gets off the bed and goes to deal with the condom and clean himself up. He can hardly walk his legs are shaking so. One day maybe Bob won’t need to turn away. One day. If only they can get there.

Bob is lying on his side when Dave comes back into the room. He sits on the bed and hands Bob the flannel, but it drops from his hand, so Dave takes it back and wipes Bob’s stomach, and between his legs. Bob doesn’t really look at him, seems almost embarrassed. Dave runs a hand down his side. “Shh,” he says, and Bob nods. Dave leans over to grab the towel, and stands up. He hands Bob the glass of water he brought from the bathroom, and he drinks it in huge thirsty gulps. “Thank you,” he says, handing back the empty glass. As usual with Bob, Dave’s sure he means more than “thank you for the water”. He goes round to the other side of the bed and gets in, pulling the duvet up. Bob doesn’t stay far away, he turns to Dave and shuffles closer and reaches for him. “Thank you,” he says again.

Dave’s not sure his own voice will work right now. He puts his hand over Bob’s. “Good night, love,” he says, and turns off the lamp.

“Good night,” says Bob.

And they lie together in the dark, both their breaths shaking a bit. 

It’s a long time before Dave falls asleep.


	8. Saturday

He wakes early, when the light is just barely grey. Bob is still turned towards him, his cheek pillowed on his hand and his mouth pushed into a sort of a pout. He is so lovely. Dave lies still and watches him. It’s hard to credit that a week ago he didn’t know Bob existed in the world. He has to close his eyes and breathe through an almost overwhelming rush of emotion. Bob sighs and Dave fights down the urge to reach out and touch him. 

Bob is still asleep when he wakes again. The room is light. If he was alone, he’d get up now and go downstairs, but he doesn’t want to let Bob wake up and wonder where he is. It’s Saturday, no need to rush. But he also doesn’t want Bob to wake up and find Dave gazing at him. He sits up and reaches for the book he’s reading. He can barely focus on the plot. Finally Bob stirs and Dave looks over at him again. “Morning,” he says.

Bob screws up his face against the light. “Morning,” he croaks. “Whassatime?”

Dave has waited to touch him, and he can’t restrain himself now, he pushes his hand through Bob’s hair, sticking up wildly. “Nine,” he says, then, as Bob frowns: “It’s Saturday, remember?”

Bob nods and smiles at him, but he seems shy, hesitant to talk.

“You hungry?” Dave asks. “I could do with a proper breakfast.”

“Um, yeah,” says Bob, “I am.”

“Do you want to shower while I make it?” Dave’s had a chance to be awake by himself, Bob deserves the same.

“Can I have a bath?” The shy way he asks makes it even clearer he needs time. Dave should be prepared for the wave of tenderness that washes through him. He wonders if he’ll ever get used to it. Maybe. If only he gets the time to get used to it. “Oh, Bob.” He leans over and kisses his forehead. “Of course. Come down when you’re ready.”

He gets dressed in his things from last night and goes and starts the bath running for Bob.

The kitchen looks completely ordinary, sunlight falling through the French doors, but the house feels utterly different this morning. He hears the bathroom door close behind Bob as he gets a pack of bacon out of the fridge and lays the rashers in his biggest pan, slices bread for toast. It’s still quiet upstairs when breakfast is almost ready. He goes up the stairs, and stops outside the bathroom door, knocks. “Bob? You okay?”

He hears a splash. “What? Yeah, I’m okay.” More splashing. “I’m finished. Sorry.”

“Don’t be. Breakfast’s almost ready though. You want coffee?”

He almost doesn’t hear Bob, his voice cracks as he says: “Yes please.”

“Okay,” he says, going back downstairs. He’s glad he gave Bob time to himself. He wants to touch him now, reassure him.

He’s got the coffee press in his hand when Bob comes in. “Come and get some coffee while I dish up,” he says, turning. Bob walks up to him and leans against him wordlessly, his face pressed into Dave’s shoulder. He puts the coffee down and brings his hand up to the back of Bob’s head. “Hey,” he says, “Hello, love.” And after a long minute, Bob says, his voice muffled, “Okay. I’m okay.” Dave tugs gently in his hair and tips his face up and kisses him. “Yes, that’s right,” he says. He hopes Bob understands what he means.

Bob leans back, and he’s smiling now. “I’m bloody starving,” he says, laughing, breaking the tension, but in a comfortable way. It’s good to sit in the sunny kitchen with Bob, barefoot and grinning, with butter running down his chin. He doesn’t want it to end, and Bob seems happy enough to stay, washing up as Dave goes upstairs to hoover. He tries not to imagine what it would be like if every Saturday was like this. They got over the slight awkwardness about last Saturday, meeting in a bar. And Bob saying, again, that he’s “not very good at this”. It’s probably too soon for Bob to relax completely and trust what is growing between them, but he did agree that they both did more than okay. It’s a good start.

He doesn’t hear Bob come up the stairs, but he turns the hoover off as soon as he sees him and asks him to strip the bed. He’s opened the window, clearing away the stuffiness and smell of sex. Bob nods and goes into the room and Dave turns the hoover back on. When he’s done, he stands in the doorway and sees Bob standing there with the duvet in his hands, staring at the bed with a funny look on his face, a bit sad.

He turns and looks at Dave. “What?” he says.

“Do you want to talk?”

“Um, not really.” Bob blushes. “Not yet.”

Dave’s not sure what he would have said, anyway.

“Okay, love.” He goes back onto the landing and switches the hoover back on, even though he’s really done, just to give Bob a bit of room.

It’s okay though. Bob shows little sign of wanting to leave, although he won’t come with Dave to buy groceries (and who can blame him). The day stays bright enough for them to have lunch on the terrace. Afterwards, they’re watching football, not really invested in the match, when Bob puts his hand high on Dave’s thigh, and Dave sprawls a bit more to give him room and Bob slips his hand round, looking up at Dave sidelong through his lashes. “What are you doing to me, Bob?” he groans. 

He knows what Bob is doing to him, something no one else has done like this, Bob is seducing him. Has seduced him, with his sadness and his sweetness, his spikiness and his softness. 

“What?” he says, mock innocent. Moving his hand more firmly, “this?”Pressing into the muscle of Dave’s thigh, rubbing up into his crotch, “this?” And then he slides off the sofa, onto his knees, and it could feel wrong, like last week, but it doesn’t, it feels right. Bob is confident and flirtatious, and Dave likes how in control he seems, as he pushes Dave’s legs further open and rubs his cheek up. Dave turns off the television as Bob’s fingers start on the button of his jeans. “This,” he says, raising his hips as Bob tugs on his waistband, “this” as Bob drags his jeans off. He sighs at the feeling of Bob’s hands on his skin, at the hot dampness of his breath on Dave’s cock. “This?” says Bob, looking up. “Mmm, this,” he agrees, and puts his hands on Bob’s shoulders, digs his fingers into the hard muscle, and Bob flexes them, but he isn’t shaking Dave off, just showing he doesn’t feel controlled. Dave drops his head back on the sofa and closes his eyes and there’s nothing but the pure sensation of Bob’s mouth, his hands and his own panting breath. Bob’s in no hurry and Dave is poised on the very edge for ages, and when finally he knows he can’t, won’t hold back, he pushes on Bob’s shoulder. Bob just grips his wrist, hard, and swallows as Dave comes in his mouth. He seems to like that, weirdly.

And then he stands up and pushes his jeans and pants off and gets on Dave’s knees and leans in and kisses him fiercely, demanding. Dave can feel his hard cock against his stomach. Bob leans back and says, not in the least tentative: “Your mouth, please.”

Dave wants that, he does, but he can’t get on his knees here. He tries to make a joke of it, but Bob takes him too seriously. He shouldn’t have mentioned their age difference; they might have to talk about that sometime, but not now. The moment passes though, and Bob stands up and holds out his hand. “Come on,” he says. At the stairs, he stands on the bottom step and turns and pulls Dave in to kiss him. They’re on the same level, and not just in height.

At the bedroom door, Bob pauses. “Fuck!” he says, “I was such a dick last week. I'm sorry.” Dave doesn’t want to let the lingering shame of a week ago overtake this confident Bob.

“Not now,” he says, “hurry up, get in bed.” Bob hurries to comply. He gives himself completely to the blowjob, his hips jerking up, his thighs bracketing Dave. And when Dave pulls off, uses his hand as Bob comes, and tries to explain how he can’t do what Bob seems to do so easily, Bob just smiles at him.

It’s only late afternoon, but he wants to stay here with Bob, so he gets them cleaned up and gets into bed with him. Bob turns towards him and they fall asleep like that, Bob’s head on his shoulder.

Much later, he wakes, aware the bed is empty. For a moment, he’s sure Bob has left, but then the toilet flushes and Bob shuffles back into the room and climbs back into bed, tucks himself back up against Dave, his skin cool from being up. He sighs, and then he says, his voice still a sleepy slur: “There was this rich fucker ... I thought I could … that he’d … it didn't turn out like I hoped.” He’s not sure exactly what Bob’s talking about, but he doesn’t interrupt, just strokes his hand up his chest. And then Bob says: “Last week, when I … I’d just left there.” He’s explaining what happened here exactly a week ago. His breath shakes as he continues: “His friends thought … and then you were there and I really liked you and—”

“It’s okay, Bob.” A spike of anger flares in Dave’s chest. Bob’s not being very clear, but he thinks he can make out the meaning. He’s so glad he took another chance on him, after last Saturday.

“Yes, but I want to tell you. Please can I tell you?” He sounds a bit desperate.

“Of course.” Dave wishes he could see Bob. He reaches for the lamp switch, but Bob says: “No. Don’t?”

Some things are easier in the dark. “Okay, love,” he says.

They lie down, and Bob tells him a confusing story of thwarted desires and misunderstandings, of boys and men who have hurt Bob and rejected him; men he thought he knew, things he’s done for love and connection.

His voice finally slows and fades and his body relaxes in the circle of Dave’s arm. Dave doesn’t fall asleep; he lies in the dark listening to Bob breathe and feeling the tears run out of his eyes and knows he has been taken over.


End file.
